Philip Margolin - Capitol murder

“What’s he say?”

“Nothing. He hasn’t said a single word since we arrested him. He’s totally mute, not even a yes or a no. If it wasn’t for fingerprints and the stuff we got out of the FedEx bombers, we’d have no idea who we’re dealing with.”

“Do we have a line on his parents, people who know him?”

“His folks live in Upton, Ohio. We have an agent on the way to interview them. From what I can tell, they’re well off. Dad served in Vietnam. He’s a dentist. The wife comes from money. We also discovered that Tolliver has been in trouble with the law.”

After Marquez told him about the rape allegations in Ohio, Crawford stood up and straightened his tie in a small mirror that hung next to the commendations and diplomas that covered his wall.

“Let’s see if I can loosen this traitor’s tongue,” he told Marquez before striding out of his office with the fierce countenance worn by vicious linebackers just before an all-out blitz.

C rawford opened the door to the interrogation room without knocking and studied Tolliver from the doorway. He was no longer wearing a hood, but his legs were manacled to the floor and his hands were cuffed. Crawford walked past Tolliver without a glance and sat down. He didn’t begin the interrogation right away but chose to stare across the table for a while, smiling when his prisoner broke eye contact.

The interview room was small and very hot. The only furniture was the uncomfortable metal chair in which Tolliver was seated, a comfortable upholstered chair Crawford was using, and a government-issue gunmetal desk that stood between the chairs. There was no two-way mirror, but closed-circuit cameras fastened to the wall just beneath the ceiling filmed everything that went on in the room, and hidden microphones recorded every word.

“Hello, Ron,” Crawford said, pausing to see if Tolliver would react. When he didn’t, Crawford smiled.

“Pretty good self-control. Then again, dead men don’t have physical reactions, and, according to our records, you’ve been dead for almost six years. We’re notifying your parents about your miraculous resurrection.”

When there was still no reaction, Crawford continued. “This will be one of those good news, bad news situations. Your folks will be happy to learn you’re not dead, but I’m guessing that they’ll puke when they learn that the fruit of their loins is a traitor who tried to top the body count of 9/11. I wonder how that will go over at the country club.”

Crawford leaned forward and let his eyes bore into Tolliver’s. “If you were my kid, you’d make me sick. You may think you’re a grade-A martyr, but to me you’re just another spoiled, self-centered rich kid. You didn’t even have the guts to try to commit suicide like those poor deluded morons you talked into killing themselves in the name of Allah.

“And we know about the rape. You must be quite a man to have to brutalize a girl before you can get laid. Well, you’ll soon experience the other side of that scenario. Some of the prison gangs are very patriotic, and they love traitors-and I mean that literally. So, realistically, your possible future scenarios are death row or a life of being cornholed. Personally, I hope you don’t get a death sentence.”

Crawford leaned back and watched Tolliver. Not a muscle in his face had twitched. Tolliver was definitely a tough guy.

“There is one way out of this mess, Ron-cooperation. The people who run you didn’t take any risks, did they? They’re safe and sound while you’re chained to the floor, facing a life in hell. There are no female virgins where you’re going, but I bet your handlers are getting laid as we speak. You’re a joke to them, Ron, a dumb-ass American wannabe super-Muslim. They’re probably pissed at you for failing, but I bet you made their day way back when you wandered into their psycho world. I bet they couldn’t believe their luck when they stumbled on an all-American boy deluded enough to buy the bullshit they were dealing out. You think…”

Suddenly, the door opened and an FBI agent walked in. He looked embarrassed.

“What the fuck is this, Leveque?” Crawford barked angrily.

“He has a court order,” the agent apologized.

“Who has a court order?” Crawford demanded.

The agent stepped aside, and a thickset man who was tall enough to look Crawford in the eye strode in.

“Bobby Schatz at your service, Terry,” he said.

“Fuck me,” Crawford replied.

Schatz was dressed in a hand-tailored navy blue pinstripe suit. A blue bow tie with white polka dots graced the collar of his white silk shirt, and the top of a folded red silk handkerchief extended upward from a pocket situated beneath the left lapel of his jacket. Schatz had straight, slicked-back hair so black that Crawford suspected that it was dyed and so heavy with gel that his hairdo resembled a lacquered cap.

“That’s no way to greet a fellow member of the bar,” Schatz said as he flashed a self-satisfied smile.

“You can take your ass out of here right now, Bobby, or I can have you thrown out.”

“Temper, temper.” Schatz held out a rolled-up document. “This is the court order to which Agent Leveque referred, and it says I get access to my client and you don’t.”

Crawford grabbed the papers. The more he read, the redder his face got. Crawford looked ready to explode by the time he finished.

“Satisfied?” Schatz asked.

“No, Bobby. This piece of shit tried to blow up a stadium full of decent citizens, and you’re here to help him get out so he can kill more Americans.”

Schatz was unfazed by Crawford’s tirade. “What happened to the presumption of innocence? Were you absent the day they discussed that silly concept in your Intro to Crim Law class?”

Crawford ignored the jibe. “How did you know where to find this scumbag?” he demanded.

“Now, now, Terry, you’re asking me to violate a confidence.” Schatz handed Crawford a letter. “I am informing you by this letter, which I have filed with the court, that there is to be no further questioning of my client unless I am present.”

Schatz surveyed the room and spotted the camera.

“I want that turned off, along with the mikes.”

For a second it looked as though Crawford might assault Schatz. Then he rolled up the letter and the court order and muttered, “We’ll see about this,” as he stormed out of the room.

As soon as the door closed behind the lawyer, Schatz sat in the chair Crawford had vacated and smiled at Tolliver.

“Don’t let Terry’s bad manners bother you. He and I have been butting heads since he was a fledgling prosecutor. He’s never gotten over the fact that I handed him his first defeat in court, and that wasn’t the only time I kicked his ass.”

Schatz laid a business card in front of the prisoner. Tolliver didn’t look at it.

“Bobby Schatz at your service. Perhaps you’ve heard of me? I’m the best defense attorney in Washington, D.C., and this isn’t the only place I practice. I’ve been hired by clients all over the U.S. because I take no prisoners.”

“Did my parents hire you?” Tolliver asked.

Schatz stood up and walked around the desk. When he was next to the prisoner, he bent down and whispered a few words of Arabic in his client’s ear. Tolliver sat up straight. Schatz smiled, walked back to his seat, and sat down.

“I have no idea whether Crawford can go up the food chain and get another judge to block my access to you, so let’s start discussing my plan to win your case.”

T erry Crawford stalked down the hall to the room where Jorge Marquez was manning the camera feed and sound equipment.

“How did Schatz find out that we had Tolliver?” Marquez asked.